Philip Jang

In the midst of our lockdown, there seems to be a race to find productive solutions to our boredom. Even I wrote a column about finding purpose in quarantine. Yet despite increased awareness of mental health challenges during the pandemic, it seems to me that we can still pay more attention to the emotional needs that this virus has exacerbated. Especially at home in Long Island, where everyone knows someone affected by the virus, its impacts are much more intimate, and listless boredom is just one trivial tribulation.

One of my mother’s favorite stories, which she likes to tell at my expense, has to do with my first day of preschool. I suppose I was a bit of a brat when I was younger. It happened to be someone’s birthday, and I apparently exclaimed that it would be my birthday soon as well. Thankfully, my teacher was feeling diplomatic and told the class, “Let’s sing Happy Birthday to Philip!” to which I responded, “Who’s Philip?” Up until then, I hadn’t left the sheltered confines of home where my parents had only called me by my Korean name. I didn’t know who “Philip” was, but I would come to find out very soon.

Sitting in bed, I am scrolling through my phone and thinking about getting up to go drink a cup of coffee. For just that fleeting moment, life feels normal—until I realize that I’m at home and not waking up to my roommate’s alarm in Woodbridge Hall. I’ve lived on Long Island since I was five, but today, home doesn’t feel like home; being here seems wrong, despite the fact that this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve been violently ripped away from the life I was living before most of our community was sent home. Adapting to this new lifestyle has been daunting.

Never once did I think that I would see a Korean movie win Best Picture at the Oscars in my lifetime. To see Bong Joon Ho rise and accept the American film industry’s highest accolade was joyfully dissonant, after feeling invisible in the media for so long. But now that the after-party is over, suddenly my vision cleared, and I’ve started to question this whole affair.

Prem Thakker is a junior in Columbia College studying history, hailing from Grand Forks, North Dakota. If you would like to hang out, he’d love to take a walk in Morningside Park, share a meal at a dining hall, or toss a Frisbee with you. You can also find him on Twitter @prem_thakker. His column, Colon, Closed Parentheses, runs alternate Mondays.

While there are some people who say there are never any open seats in Butler, there’s always space—you just have to wait long enough to find it. Stumble in after midnight and most of the crowds will be gone; you’ll begin to identify a pattern of people and phenomena that beholds itself to only its most devoted patrons.